


Profet of the- Nope!

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-08-19 17:46:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8219689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: OC, Ashlynn Heyes, finds her parents dead. Her Mom tells her that her dad isn't her father-Bobby Singer is. After Dean returns from hell, she meets Castiel, who procedes to tell her that she's a profet of the lord.
Warning:Too much sass to function.





	1. Hi Dad, I'm Ashlynn.

**Author's Note:**

> First SPN Fanfic... Enjoy

Ashlynn Heyes POV

 

The house is a mess when I arrive. The articles thrown across the room I can handle. The broken vase and mirror I can handle. But the blood splattered on the walls… some bitch gonna die. I tentatively take a step forward, careful not to step on anything. I turn the corner to see my Mom and Dad, the sticky red substance pooling beneath them, staining the linoleum floor. My breath catches in my throat as I cross the room and throw myself down to my parents’ level. Hand shaking, I brush the hair away from my Mother’s face. I close my eyes in respect, tears rolling.

“Ashlynn.” A voice nearly inaudibly whispers. My eyes flash open, lowering on the woman in front of me.

“Mom!” I gasp in relief.

“Go to Bobby Singer in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. He is.. your… biological father.” She struggles to say, blood leaking from the corner of her mouth. The knowledge of my dad not having given half my chromosomes is already present. Little does my Mom know, Dad had already talked to me about this, having found out none of us shared the same blood type. Dad then proceed to send all of our hairs to a DNA clinic, proving Dad wasn’t my sperm provider, and Mom was my birth giver.

“It’s okay Mom. I’ll get help.” I say calmly, then pull my phone out and dial the 3 digit number in charge of emergencies.

“911, what is your emergency?” The calming female voice asks.

“Yes, um… My parents are… injured. My Dad's dead. My Mom is barely... here. My address is 2134 West Dillon Street. Please hurry.” I say and hang up. I wet a paper towel and wipe the blood away from the-woman-that-raised-me’s face.

She starts coughing, spewing more blood from her already blood stained face. “Mom?” I ask. When she makes no sign of being alive, I scream, “Mom!” Tears spilling down my face, I clutch her and sob uncontrollably into her still warm shoulder.

By the time the ambulance arrives, she has lost warmth, making her a lump of cold meat. When the gurney rolls in I state the obvious. “You're too late.” Still, they roll her into the ambulance, but there is no siren as they pull away.

…

“And you just found them that way?” The officer in front of me asks. I attempt to respond unbiasedly, but his moustache looks Hitler, instigating hate.

“Yes. Are you implying something?” My instincts are on high, telling me to run. Run like hell. Don’t look back.

“No, Miss Heyes,” Hitler-stash replies. “I’m just trying to get a good image of what happened to your parents.”

_ RUN!!! _ “Well, then you know as much as I do. Excuse me.” I say,  _ not _ running up the stairs and into my room. I take my old school backpack out of the closet and start packing the necessities: Toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, a box of tampons, my secret stash of cash (roughly $400), cell phone charger, headphones, cell phone, assorted clothes, and(most importantly) my locket containing a picture of my family. I write a note and leave it on my pillow, telling everyone(of whom might care) my location. I slide the window open and take one last look at my room. I’ve stayed here for my entire life… can I adjust to being away from it?  _ You’ll figure it out, now hurry up _ , my inner voice screeches. I slide out and close the window, it locking with a satisfying  _ click _ .

I shimmy down the downspout, it groaning in protest at the extra weight. I pull my bike out of the garage. Barnett Missouri to Sioux Falls South Dakota is 520 miles away, that means I can make it there in 45 hours if I don’t stop. Lets add an extra 10 in there for sleep and food. That means I can get there three days from now. One AM on Thursday. I get pedaling.   
  


…

 

It’s 10 AM when I knock on the door of Bobby Singer. I’m shocked when the door is opened, revealing a 20 some tall guy with brown hair and sad eyes.

“Um… Is this the Singer residence?” I ask to the man obviously not Bobby.

“Who’s asking?” His voice resonates.

That sparks something inside me. “Now listen here, Shitface. In the past 3 days I’ve had both my parents killed, slept in a -5 star motel, and biked over 500 miles. So if you're gonna be an ass, do it on your own time. Now where the fuck is Bobby Singer?” I scream in the man’s attractive face. He backs up as I move forward. We continue this dance until I push past and forward into a living room area occupying a 40ish year old man and stacks of books and loose leaf papers.

“Who the fuck are you?” The man asks, standing as I enter the room.

“You Bobby Singer?” I ask and unbuckle my helmet, removing it, showing my helmet hair.

“Yeah, what’s it to you?” He inquires, moving in front of the desk in the rear of the room.

“Aww, you don't recognise me?” I mock.

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m your daughter.” I say.


	2. So... Your a psychopath?

“Because I’m your daughter.” I say, not knowing what to expect.  
He laughs. “My daughter? I don’t have one.”  
It pains me to say her name, but I say, “That’s not what Michel Heyes thinks.”  
His eyes darken. “How do you know her name?” In response, I toss my locket at him. He catches it one handedly and opens it, revealing the photo of my family and I. Sadness washes over his face. “What happened to her?”  
“She’s dead. Her last words were to find you.” I catch the locket as he volleyed it back to me. “She obviously trusts you. She never even let me go to my friend's’ house overnight.”  
The dude I met at the door speaks next. “You have a daughter?”  
“No shit, Sherlock!” I sassed in response. “Who are you?”  
“Sam Winchester. How did yo-”  
“My parents die? Don’t know.”  
“-manage to bike 500 miles in 3 days? That's amazing.”  
I smile slightly at that comment. “Thanks, I was a triathlete.”  
Sam turns to Bobby. “Should I move my stuff out of the guest room?”  
“You don’t have to-” I make an attempt to be nice, only to be cut off.  
“It’s fine, I have to go soon anyways. I’ll move to the couch.”  
“You sure?” I ask.  
“Yeah. It’s cool.” Sam waves it off, clearly not taking no for an answer.  
“Okay… need help?” I ask in a politeness attempt.  
“Um…” He looks at Bobby.  
“No, I need to talk to you anyways.” Bobby states.  
I move over to the couch pushed lazily against the wall and sit down. “About what?”  
He sits on the desk. "I have some stuff to talk to you about."  
"No drinking, no smoking, no drugs... stuff like that?" I ask.  
"Well... um... Actually..." He struggles to word it properly.  
"Just say it." I say.  
"... You see the books everywhere?" He asks rhetorically.  
"Don't touch 'em?"  
"There about... well..."  
"Your a psychopath?" I ask, expecting a 'Hell no'.  
"Not exactly. The things I see would make some people lose it, but-"  
"And what are those things?" He opens his mouth to answer, but I interrupt, saying, "Don't try to sugar coat it."  
"I hunt things."  
"So does half of Minnesota."  
"Things that give people nightmares." He says.  
"Elaborate" I demand.  
"Demons, ghosts, vampires, werewolves, shape shifters."  
"Stuff like that." I say and lie down, getting comfy in my new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

It's been a week since I arrived, and it's actually been quite normal. Up until now. "I'm leaving! Bye!" I shout, backpack over my shoulder, and open the door to go to school. But when I open it a man (handsome to say the least) around 6 feet is standing there, hand raised to knock. "Um... Hi?" I ask.

He puts his hand down and says, "Is Bobby here?" Same question I asked a week ago.

"BOBBY! THERE'S SOMEONE HERE FOR YOU!" I shout. I hear his footsteps coming closer. When he arrives at the door he freezes.

"Hey Bobby. I look pretty good for a dead guy don't I?" Dead guy? I back up, Bobby attacks the 'dead guy' with a knife (silver, I had asked 3 days ago), but the man wrestles the knife from Bobby's hand to his. "I'm not a demon, Bobby."

"Then your a Shifter." He lunges to grab the knife, but the man sidesteps. Where did he say the gun was? Oh, right. I run over and sift through the papers.

I grab the handle and fire at the undead.


	4. Chapter 4

The hotty gets up off the ground, groaning in pain, making my eyes widen. Bobby slides the knife across his arm, blood dripping from the wound.

“The fuck?!” I drop the gun and walk over. Poking the man, eyes squinted, confused as to what the fuck this guy is doing walking around.

“Do you mind, girly?” He slaps my hand away.

“Ashlynn, actually. And no, I don't mind.” I snark.

He decides to take an alternative route, turning to Bobby, he asks, “Who’s that?”

He sighs and says, “My daughter.”

“Yeah, I met daddy dearest 18 days ago.” I smile.

He addresses Bobby again, with, “Where’s Sam?” Ut-oh.


	5. Chapter 5

“That’s only a few miles from where I was buried.” Mr. Hot-Stuff grabs his coat.

“I call shotgun!” I declare and glide to the door.

Bobby on the other hand, says, “No way you're going.”

My jaw drops. “Why?”

“Because your a kid.”

“I’m 17 next month, I’m not a kid!” I yell back.

“I’m your father and I say no.”

I plop down on the couch. “Do I have to go to school today, though?”

He considers it for a moment before saying, “No, you can stay here.” 

A smile covers my lips. “Thanks Dad.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: graphic torture and r- ghaghughuh*dead*

I didn’t expect someone to knock. I didn’t expect it to be officer Hitler-Stache. I didn’t expect to be knocked over as soon as I turned around. But most of all, I didn’t expect him to have black eyes. A memory pokes itself into my head. I had been reading one of Bobby many books, and I came across a line that had really interested me.

_ With strength of 10 and eyes of black. _

Yeah, this guys has the strength of 10 men and black eyes.

“It wasn’t that difficult to figure out who killed your parents… since I did it.” he growls in my ear.

“Why? Why kill them?” I inquire.

He laughs darkly. “To get you ready to break.”

_ What the fuck is he talking about? _ “Go to hell, you prick!” I snarl back at the demon.

“Been there, done that.” And with one fluid movement he spreads my legs. He grabs the edge of my shorts and pulls them off, along with my underwear. I scramble away, taking refuge in the gun filled living room, bottomless. I grab the handle, only to have it knocked out of my hand. Reflexively, I whirl around. In the blink of an eye my leg has been lifted and I’m being torn from the inside, my virginity taken.

A scream emanates from my lips, him thrusting himself even further into me. “Stop, please!” I beg, tears streaming down my face from minutes of abuse.

“Do you admit you’re broken?”

“Never.” I whimper. He shrugs and goes another several inches further into me. My screams echo into the empty house, nearly passing out from the pain of his full member in my no longer virgin hole. Finally, after 20 minutes of torture, he buries himself deep into me and empties his load, the warm substance dripping from my pussy.

He drops me, my body falling limp  to the floor. But he’s not done yet. He lifts my hips and sets them on his legs, hole facing up, and balls his fists, shoving them into my 2 sensitive caverns, making me in so much pain that I can't even scream. He pumps inside of me, eventually getting up to the middle of his upper arms. He pulls an arm out and shoves an empty beer bottle in my rear. Then another. Then another. Soon I have 9 bottles in my ass and 6 in my front. He smiles down at me, leaving the door open as he leaves me to my bloodied self. One by one, I pull the bottles out. Once I’m free of the glass torture devices, I pull myself over to the phone.

For the second time this month, I hear, “911, what is your emergency?”

"Help.” Is all I manage, passing out from the pain and blood loss from which I suffer.

**Author's Note:**

> See you next chapter.


End file.
